


They're Lumberjacks, it's OK.

by bestliars



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Beards, Crossdressing, Lumberjacks, M/M, Roleplay, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestliars/pseuds/bestliars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike hates trees, they're very boring. You know what isn't boring? Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're Lumberjacks, it's OK.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, I'm so sorry. So, it was the playoffs, and I was telling Stellarer about how they're beards made them look like lumberjacks, and then I said I should write a story about them as lumberjacks, and then I remembered [this monty python sketch](http://youtu.be/5zey8567bcg), so I was like, "crossdressing lumberjacks!" And then Stellarer, paragon of wisdom said "DON'T WRITE THAT," but then E, who isn't into hockey or smut said I should write it, and then, well, I did. It was a terrible life choice. I am so sorry.

Generally, Mike Richards enjoys being a lumberjack. Cutting down trees is hard but rewarding work. It takes a lot of axe swings to fell a tree, the crashing sound when it finally falls over is a satisfying sign of a job well done.

He used to work at big logging camps with lots of other men. He had liked the community, but doesn’t think he’ll miss it that much. His new position is much more isolated; it will be just him and Jeff alone, up the side of a mountain, all winter, working to clear enough land to plant crops in the spring. He shouldn’t miss the bustle of camp. Lots of people just get on his nerves. There isn’t anyone he’d rather be stuck with than Jeff and Arnold, his dog.

The journey to their new home is scenic, but Mike can’t spare much attention to the beauty of the landscape. He’s too busy keeping track of all their supplies. They have a lot of stuff. The cabin is more than a day’s ride from anywhere else, and they won’t see civilization again until after the thaw.

Their cabin is small, but not oppressively so. A better descriptor would be snug, or even cozy. It’s a barebones structure that had been sat abandoned for years before they cleaned it out. The previous occupant had been some mad school teacher poet who had cloistered herself their after her fiance had died, until she followed him into the next world, drowning herself in a river. Or something like that. Mike hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the story, but apparently it was maudlin enough to scare off a larger logging operation.

They spend a couple days settling in, hauling junk they won’t need into the attic and eradicating dust. After that they fall into an easy routine of working hard during the days and relaxing together in the evenings.

Jeff is the better cook so he goes in early to start dinner while Mike and Arnold stay out until the sun sets, which gets earlier and earlier. Mike likes coming in from the cold to the fire roaring in the hearth and a hot meal on the table.

At night they share a bed. It isn’t queer. There only is one bed. It makes sense to share. Even with the fire, the body heat between the covers, and Arnold snoring on their feet it’s still going to get cold when winter arrives.

They jerk each other off in that bed, but that isn’t queer either. They’re the only people around for miles. Not lending a helping hand would leave them both sexualy frustrated, and then they wouldn’t be able to get as much work done. _It makes sense._

Winter arrives. It comes strong here, the weather dominating land and people alike. The snow falls deep. Mike knows that it won’t leave until spring. He grew up with winters like this. He remembers how the season can cover the land in a cold white blanket, and the silence that comes with it.

As the winter gets comfortable, Mike gets antsy. The snow becomes an enemy. Mike is positive it is trying to bury them. The cold wants to cut them up. The wind wants to knock them down. Winter, in its many guises, is trying to hold them captive. Mike daydreams of running away to somewhere warm and interesting.

After dinner they sit in front of the fire with their whisky rations. Mike can hardly stand it. He understands the logic behind pacing themselves, and certainly doesn’t want to spend April sober, but he really wishes he could have more to drink. He’s chilled down to his bones and alcohol is one of the few things he thinks might fix it.

He pour backs half his glass in one gulp and says, “If I don’t see something that isn’t snow or trees soon I’m going to go crazy,” Mike says. “There’s so much snow. And so many fucking trees. And nothing else.”

“That sucks buddy,” Jeff says. “What you have to do is play pretend. That’s how I handle it. I make up stories while I do other things. While I’m chopping down trees I pretend that really I’m a huntsman biding my time and plotting to overthrow an evil queen. When I cook dinner I imagine that I’m the chef at a fancy restaurant in, like, Paris.”

That does explain some of the meals they’ve eaten lately.

“Sure there are a ton of trees and snow,” Jeff says, “but this takes my mind off of things.”

Mike puts his head in his hands. Why couldn’t he have been stuck in an isolated cabin with someone normal? “I’m glad your fairy tales are keeping you entertained, but I don’t think you get it. This place, and all of the things that aren’t here, is driving me insane.”

“What are you missing?” Jeff asks. “Tell me about it. Maybe I can do something, or it might just feel good to talk about.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Mike says, but tries anyway.

Mike misses women. When they worked at the camp they would get time to go into town to spend their paychecks on whores and liquor. There are no whores here, and not nearly enough liquor.

Mike talks and talks. He finishes his whiskey, and when Jeff pushes his own across the table he finishes that too.

“I miss having a good time. I mean, what we’re doing here is nice. Nice enough, anyway, but it’s always the same thing day after day, the two of us, alone with the trees and the snow.”

“And Arnold,” Jeff reminds him.

“Yeah, and Arnold,” Mike agrees. “And Arnold is a really great dog. I fucking love that dog. But still, it’s you and me, and Arnold, and snow, and trees, and no women, no fucking, and not enough booze. So yeah, it’s nice. So nice I’m going nuts.”

Jeff looks like he’s seriously considering the situation they’re in. Mike appreciates the concern, in a distant blurry sort of way. “I think,” Jeff says, “that it’s time for you to go to bed. It’s late, and I’m sure that you’re going to have a lot of fun cutting down trees with a hangover tomorrow, but right now you need to go to sleep, and trust me to figure something out. Is that alright?”

“Sure,” Mike says. “I can do that.” He trusts Jeff Carter with his life.

*

In the morning Mike discovers another reason to hate the snow. It reflects the sunlight, making the day extra bright, and his headache even worse. He shouldn’t have a hangover right now. The lack of booze is making his tolerance disappear. It isn’t fair.

 

Jeff goes in earlier than he generally does. Mike is a little annoyed, because they’re up here to cut down trees, not to do whatever Jeff is doing in the cabin, but he doesn’t have the energy to be properly pissed off, and anyway, it’s just trees. They’re all going to get cut down eventually, it doesn’t really matter.

Mike has absolutely no idea what the big surprise is gonna be. They’re so isolated up here, he can’t imagine that it’s actually going to be exciting. If there was something exciting possible in the area they would have figured it out already.

When Mike goes in there’s something baking in the oven and Jeff is...somewhere else, which doesn’t really make sense, because there’s only one room, but then he hears some banging noises from above and remembers the attic. Mike starts to worry. The attic was full of stuff when they arrived, and it just got fuller as they cleaned up. He doesn’t have any real idea what’s up there. They school teacher had left behind a lot of things, books and clothes, and while they threw out all the serious mildew the rest got dumped up there to collect more dust. He hopes that the big plan isn’t to read something; that would be dull. He also hopes that Jeff doesn’t fall through the rafters, which is possibile. If so he only has himself to blame, and Mike is just going to make fun of him and not help at all.

Whatever happens next is almost certainly going to be a terrible idea. There is a reason why Mike makes most of the plans.

He sits down, unties his bootlaces and tries not to think about it.

Jeff shouts, “Don’t look,” down the attic ladder. Mike is happy to close his eyes and let his head thunk against the wall. There is the sound of ruffling fabric and then footfalls coming towards him.

“Alright, you can open your eyes now.”

Mike thinks about falling asleep like this, still wearing one boot, but Jeff would probably be disappointed.

He opens his eyes and Jeff is wearing a dress. It’s light purple, lavender or lilac really, and meant for someone much smaller than him. It’s tight at the shoulders and short at the wrist. Mike looks down to see Jeff’s stocking feet and an amount of ankle that would be scandalous on a woman.

“What the hell?” Mike has no idea what’s going on. Maybe a tree fell on his head and this is a hallucination. Maybe he actually did fall asleep leaning against the log wall and this is just a dream.

Jeff hasn’t shaved. He’s still wearing the bushy blonde beard he’d carefully cultivated to keep his face warm. It makes the entire situation more absurd.

“Dinner is ready Mr. Richards, if you’d like to move to the table,” Jeff says, but it isn’t how he normally talks. His voice isn’t any higher, but it’s lighter somehow, and he’s using manners Mike didn’t know Jeff knew.

This is probably the weirdest thing to ever happen in his life.

Only then they sit down to supper it’s the same as always, only Jeff is wearing a dress. Dinner is meat and potatoes—venison from a buck Mike had shot a few days ago. Dinner is always meat and potatoes, or sometimes meat and wild rice, or meat and noodles, or sometimes meat and more meat. It isn’t an exciting meal. Arnold sits at their feet and begs for scraps, which they both give him. They talk about their plans to cut down more trees. It’s stunningly normal, only Jeff is still wearing a dress and talking that way, fluttering his eyelashes and asking, “Do you like your steak, Mr. Richards? I made it especially for you.”

After they clean their plates Jeff leads Mike towards the bed. It’s kind of early to sleep, but whatever. If Jeff thinks he needs a good night’s sleep, then that’s what’ll happen. Only instead of getting tucked in like usual Jeff says, “Take your pants off.”

Mike doesn’t really understand what’s happening, but sure, he can take his pants off. Pants are bad for sleeping. He kicks off his jeans and shrugs off his overshirt so he’s left in just the red long underwear that double as pajamas. He’s ready to get under the covers when Jeff says, “No, take those off too.”

Mike still doesn’t know where this is going but nakedness opens up some interesting possibilities. He can do nakedness. He strips efficiently, and then he’s just standing there, naked, feeling stupid, but then Jeff has him sit on the edge of the bed.

Then Jeff is kneeling, and yeah, Mike knows where this is headed now. Blood rushes south.

It’s clear that Jeff has little to no experience, but he’s enthusiastic, which makes up for any technical deficiencies. Plus, there hasn’t been anyone in ages, so it really doesn’t take much. Jeff’s beard feels weird against his thighs. Not good or bad, just weird. Really fucking weird. Kind of good actually. Mike might be into it. It’s different, and that’s a reminder of where he is and who he’s with. This isn’t some girl he met in a saloon, this is Jeff, his best friend, with the stupid mountain man beard.

Just when he’s getting close Jeff pulls off and stands up. Jeff takes off the top layer of the dress, but there’s another slip underneath, which is white and kind of sheer where it’s straining over Jeff’s lumberjack muscles, his pecs a poor imitation of cleavage, but so much better than anything Mike’s seen in ages.

Mike can only watch as Jeff walks over to the kitchen, takes a bottle of oil and pours some of it out in his hand, hikes his skirt up, and fingers himself open. Mike could never have predicted any of this. He wants to reach out and touch Jeff’s ass, but that might be weird, but so what, everything about this is weird.

They get under the covers and Mike remembers why sex is such a good thing. He had missed sex, had missed the connection it brought to his own body, as well as to someone else’s. Sex is great. This is something else too.

It would be understandable if he was unsettled by the other person in bed with him being a man. It would be alright if Mike freaked out a bit about that, only it doesn’t actually seem that strange. Physically it feels about the same; the extra aspect he can’t pin down is purely mental.

It would be easy to blame the game Jeff staged the encounter within, but by now Mike’s mostly ignoring the act. Mike isn’t that into the drag, and it isn’t that convincing. Mike isn’t sure that Jeff knows any women who aren’t whores or the wives of lumberjacks. If so he’s never mentioned it. This lack of knowledge would certainly explain some things.

The dress up act is fun, or something. It’s interesting. It’s different, which he appreciates in the blizzard of monotony, but mostly he’s into the gesture. It’s a turn on that Jeff would do something so ridiculous to try to make him happy.

It’s a turn on that it’s Jeff.

Mike can’t remember the last time he kissed someone. Kissing whores in logging towns just isn’t done, and it isn’t right to kiss because it’s convenient. Kisses happen when you care. Mike really wants to kiss Jeff. He rearranges their bodies so Jeff is lying flat on his back, bracketed by Mike’s arms.

Mike had been saving kissing for a time when it really mattered, like when he found a wife, but if he’s honest that doesn’t seem likely. It seems he isn’t the marrying type.

He leans over and presses his mouth to Jeff’s. Their beards rub together, which is a strange sensation, but it’s not a bad kiss.

Jeff kisses back, for a minute, then pulls away. “What the hell?”

Explaining the impulse is difficult, but Jeff did all of this for him. Mike can give articulation a try. “I wanted to kiss you. Because, you’re...you did this for me. I mean, it’s really dumb, but you did it for me.”

“It isn’t dumb,” Jeff protests.

“Yeah it is. I don’t care though.”

“You’re dumb,” Jeff says. “You’re lucky I like your stupid dumb face.”

Mike laughs. Talking is a waste of time when they could be making out instead. Jeff agrees. It’s a better kiss: hot, deep, searing. It’s a kiss that makes him warm through and through, muscles and bones and guts, all aflame with lust, heat, and need. This should keep them busy til spring.


End file.
